


Clint Barton does not realize that he has a bone to pick with the odds of survival half the time

by deltacrow



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Clint Barton is a Demigod, also those are really dark times for Clint, b/c reasons, mild!! thoughts of self-harm/ suicide, minor depictions of violence, minor mentions of child abuse, minor mentions of self-harm, no but seriously its like twice in passing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-22
Updated: 2014-06-23
Packaged: 2018-01-20 11:03:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1508147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deltacrow/pseuds/deltacrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Agent Clint Barton is known for his eyesight and for his accuracy with a bow. Baby agents made up stories: he's an immortal soldier from the Middle Ages, he's an alien, his bow aims for him.<br/>The story is different. Still hard to swallow, but. Different.<br/>---<br/>Clint Barton does not, as he grows older, look a thing like his father Harold Barton, unlike his brother Barney. (What he doesn't know is that he still favors his father's side. His mother was never very assertive in anything, it seems.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There's a few crossovers with the Avengers and Percy Jackson where Clint Barton is a demigod and is fully aware of it.  
> I have a bone to pick with those fics. Along with loving them to pieces.  
> Because it would cost money to send Clint to Camp Half-Blood-- like, to get him over there and everything. I also doubt that Harold Barton would take kindly to his wife cheating on him, as he is an alcoholic abusive bastard. So it wouldn't make sense for Clint to _know_ that he was a demigod, but be one nonetheless.  
>  So basically, this is Clint, growing into himself.

Agent Clint Barton is known for his eyesight and for his accuracy with a bow. Baby agents made up stories: he's an immortal soldier from the Middle Ages, he's an alien, his bow aims for him.

The story is different. Still hard to swallow, but. Different.

\---

Clint Barton does not, as he grows older, look a thing like his father Harold Barton, unlike his brother Barney. (What he doesn't know is that he still favors his father's side. His mother was never very assertive in anything, it seems.)

\---

When the Barton boys leave their fourth foster home, the circus is in town.

C'mon, Barney had said. It'll be fun, he announced, climbing over fences and weaving between feet. It'll be everything we've ever wanted-- cotton candy and lion taming and, maybe, Clint believed him, somewhere in the pit of his stomach. Something _good_ might come out of it, for once, like when he discovered that he could climb on top of the fridge and that he was just, _just_ small enough to not be seen. He was three and a half at that point and began to love heights. He was seven when he and his brother became the kid's dream of running away and joining the circus.

\---

It's been five weeks since the Barton boys joined Carson's. Clint's not an idiot, not at seven, because you can't be an idiot when you've been where Clint has-- so when the ringmaster wants to know who the fucking waifs are, and Barney goes for the classic _who wants to know_ routine, Clint weaves a half-truth, a candy floss tale about dead parents and mean aunts and _we can pull our weight, sir, honest, we had to cook and clean and shit at home._ It's maybe more like three-quarters truth, because their parents really are dead and some of the homes were questionable, at best-- and for all that they had to cook and clean and shit at home, they also had to run and hide, like a big game of house and hide and seek all in one, except sometimes all they wanted to do was turn on the stove and hide in it some days.

But they get jobs cleaning out cages and mucking the horse trailers and feed in the animals. And that's all well and good, especially for room and board and a chance to see some of the performers practice, but. Barney always was impatient, especially with his dreams, and Clint had taken one look at Buck Chisholm's and Jacques Duquesne's acts and fell in love with them. Mostly, Clint would admit, with Buck's act, because by _God_ , his bow was _beautiful_. Clint had never been a poet-- he'd been a great storyteller, he likes to think-- but he would find a way to write _sonnets_ about that bow. He wants one. More importantly, he sees how Buck holds that bow like it's a tool, and holds himself all wrong, all _wrong_ , and he knows that he can hit that damn knot from father away at a better angle, _there's no_ fun _hitting it from there_ , and realizes that he wants a bow to hold right and shoot right and treat right. He wants that more than he wanted to hide himself in a hot oven on bad days at the Barton household, and the feeling in the back of his head and the pit of his stomach curls with contentment that _yes, this is what you want._

So when he wakes up with a bow in his hand, elegant contours of polished wood and-- Good _God,_ those looked like metal inlays-- and that fits perfectly into his hands, his immediate reaction is that it is too good to be true. His next reaction is that by God, there is no _way_ anyone bought this for him. In tandem with that thought is that someone will steal it from him and what will he do then? He'll be all alone again, he can't have that, not at all, not after seeing and holding such a beautiful gem like this!

But Barney is stirring at Clint's back, and Clint begins to turn, panicking. Barney opens his eyes, squinted against the sunrise, and asks Clint what happened, did he have another nightmare, Dad's gone, see? He can't hurt you anymore, Clint, so you really should stop being a pussy and get over it.

Barney doesn't say anything about the bow. Clint turns back to it and almost panics again; who managed to steal his baby and replace it with a violin case? That's _still_ going to get stolen, and he can't even play the fucking violin. The case is beautiful, though, and the same damn inscriptions appear on the bow-- oh, _lovely_ , the thief has a lovely sense of humor. He may as well sell the damn thing, because he's sure as hell not going to want to look at it ever again. But as he's picking the case up, a card flutters down and lands lightly on the ground.

It reads, a bow's a bow, no matter how you string it. Learn to play them both. (One becomes the other, Clint- you just have to want it.)

He's seven. He's allowed to believe in miracles. He stashes the violin case and card in the hay lining the freight car and stretches out sore muscles, readying himself for another day's work.

And when it's late and Barney's learning how to drink and gamble from the strongman and the clowns, Clint stumbles back to the freight car and reaches for the case under the hay. He finds the bow and a quiver he didn't notice earlier and is _overjoyed_ , completely okay with this new development. He finds a quiet spot near the big top, away from prying eyes and noises, and clamors up a tree, veins singing as his shots sink into more or less the same cluster. This-- this is _wonderful_ , this is _fantastic_ , this is _right, so right_. Clint empties and retrieves arrows for an hour or two before realizing that people will probably become suspicious if he's gone for too much longer. Clint is seven and he wakes up not believing in magic and falls asleep believing in magic and maybe even his future.

\---

Clint is eleven, and still believes in magic. Barney doesn't know, because he's fifteen and still angry and drinking his way through the nights. Clint also-- he wants something that's just _his_ , just for Clint, not something he wants to share. So he doesn't share the secret of the magic bow and quiver, and doesn't realize how excellent of an idea that was, nor that it signaled the end of the Barton boys as Clint knew them. Clint spent his time fiddling with the violin, practicing with the bow, and hanging around with the acrobats and fortune tellers and stand operators. The acrobats teach him how to bend and leap and fall and figure out who to trust when you need someone to catch you; the fortune teller, Magdaline, teaches him how to read people and how to remember things and how to keep a story straight. The carnival stand operators teach him how to repair things and how to fleece a rube out of all the change in his pocket. (Magdaline taught him that, too, to be fair.)

Buck finds him in a clearing, and thinks, at first, that he's been fleeced by Clint, too-- but then sees his shots and doesn't care anymore. (He also sees that he had the same number of bows and arrows that night that he did that morning, and assumes that the kid was simply borrowing. He's wrong on all counts, but he won't ever know that, Clint thinks.)

So Clint "learns" how to shoot from Buck. He's more sore from whatever Buck tries to make him stand like and hold like, and after a while Buck acquiesces to Clint's stance, assuming this is the one thing he'll never learn. Duquesne jumps aboard the Barton train and teaches both Clint and Barney the fine art of fencing and swordfighting and knifethrowing from God only knows where he learned it. Barney does marginally better with the swords because he's bigger and angrier than Clint and sometimes, technique means jack shit in the face of brute strength. It takes the edge off of Barney for a little bit-- he's finally moving up the ladder a little-- and gives him a reason to withdraw from the alcohol and gambling a little. (Clint could hit a single gnat straight through its eye with a knife 100 yards away if he had strength like he had eyesight, and those aren't his words.)

But Clint gets a shot at performing and learns showboating and to smile at everything, and something inside of him heats up with the stage lights at shooting a bow and being appreciated for it. The oohs and aahs at his skills make him feel happy and wanted-- and that's! That's nice! But he'd rather be in the shadows, because even the big top is too cramped. Not from up high, like on the platforms leading to the aerial perches-- those shots are fine, those are fun and exciting-- but when he gets to the floor, it all feels too small.

But he's shooting a bow and he's in the show and making more money than he was mucking out the cages. He uses one of Buck's bows for the shows, because he's still not ready to show anyone his own bow, and Buck still ribs him for using one of "his bows" to practice. Clint never, ever corrects him, not even if he wants to.

\---

Clint's seventeen and bleeding into the pavement, his arms and legs bleeding and his feet and his hands-- _oh, God, his hands_ \-- broken in a few places. He feels tears-- or maybe it's blood-- trickle down his face. He passes out with no sensation but pain wracking his body.

He wakes up in a hospital room and that startles the doctor in there. The doctor restrains Clint, a hint of sadness lurking in his eyes, and tells Clint that there is nothing wrong with his hands when he asks. Honestly, he said, there were some scrapes and bruises, but nothing crazy, he said-- you just wouldn't wake up.

Oh, he muses, about to leave, some one dropped of a violin. Said it belonged to you. He reminds Clint to get some sleep and winks before leaving.

Clint is seventeen and maybe believes that there might be a God and that he might be trying to make up for Clint's shit life.

His total pay and his magic violin are in the case when he opens it. He escapes out the window.

\---

On his nineteenth birthday, Clint kills a man for someone.

He threw up in an alleyway ten blocks away from the collection point, but finds a public bathroom to rinse out his mouth in the sink once his hands stop shaking.

The man at the drop off point looks almost kind, which was ironic considering he was the one who cornered Clint and had him kill a man his boss didn't like. He offers Clint a piece of gum and tells him that it doesn't get better, he just gets used to it.

Clint nods, because what else are you going to do, and the wire transfer hits as soon as the kill makes the papers.

\---

It's been three years of the same- running, hiding, waiting, shooting-- and Clint's tired of it. Not necessarily the killing part, mind-- he's got to eat somehow, and street musicians aren't exactly paid enough to guarantee basic necessities. He's just-- tired of _hiding_ from _everyone_ , is all. Makes him feel like the world is just one big game of house and hide and seek, and he's tempted to stave off the anxiety of waiting for someone to catch him like Harold used to by sticking his head in the shiny new oven his apartment in Bed-Stuy has. It's stupid to stay, but he's hoping for a small break.

...Well, SHIELD does break in a few weeks later. It is also a small party, ergo a small break. He supposes, in the scheme of things, they were not the worst people to come barging in. He tells one of the older suits as much, and gets the quirk of an eyebrow in return. He figures the suit is still watching him as he turns and demands that one of his baby agents stops shitting around with his violin, she was expensive and should be true like a lady you want to wine and fuckin' dine, you shithead, not like a perp you've gotten to collar. Gimme Eutrepe, I'll go quietly if you fucking _hand me my instrument._

Clint goes pink in the ears for his last statement. He decided his magic bow had spent enough time nameless, and remembered that the cool chorus line in _Hercules_ were the Muses, and there was a Muse of Music. So. Eutrepe. Not the most original, or hell even the prettiest name, but it's hers and that's what matters.

So Clint Barton and his merry band of captors trundle out of his apartment in Bed-Stuy. Clint has the clothes on his back and his magic violin, Eutrepe, and thinks that maybe he'll be able to stop hiding from everyone.

\---

He is entirely right, he realizes at twenty-three. He does not, actually, have to hide from everyone. Just most people.

But-- he has friends at SHIELD. He has a job. He can keep his apartment at Bed-Stuy. Mary from Accounting and Janice from Legal found Clint's Social Security number for him so he could get a bank account and cash his paychecks. Mary also helped him file do taxes, which sucked, but-- she said it was the principle of the thing, paying taxes and being an active citizen. And also he wouldn't get arrested for tax evasion, which is always a plus. R&D as a whole might want to impale him on one of his own arrows, but Issac is an excitable science nerd and was always ready to show Clint a new design; in return, Isaac found candy apples in his desk drawers whenever arrows worked out well. Agent Sitwell had a nasty sense of humour, matching Clint's to a T, and if Clint showed up at just the right time, Agents Brown and Woo let hit into the range with NERF pellets and superglue to annoy the newbies.

He still believes in magic, and plays the violin occasionally, but has stopped using Eutrepe as a weapon. He doesn't want her to have any more blood on her than necessary. But every time he shoots a SHIELD issue bow, there's a little piece of him that wonders why it feels empty.

\---

Half a year later, he finds a dog in the middle of a gang fight and the crazy mutt saves his life but loses an eye. Thus christens Lucky, the only person who has stood up for Clint thus far. Clint and Lucky have to hide out in the tiny SHIELD apartment in Belarus, where Clint makes more pizza than he and the dog can stand. Thus christens Pizza Dog, who follows Clint back to the Triskelion for debrief and to Bed-Stuy to stay. He's happier with Lucky and his job than he ever has been in his life.

Lucky noses Eutrepe toward him one evening. He plays absently, and when he sets out the next morning to jog with Lucky, his neighbor Lucille comments on the pretty CD he was listening to yesterday, would you care to give this old bag of bones a copy, because it reminds her of a performer she once heard at Carnegie Hall when she was a lass and it was remarkable, truly remarkable.

He wonders if her hearing's as shot as she always said it was. He's not that good.


	2. onset of the battle of manhattan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein most of the SHIELD agents around decide to randomly fall asleep-- except for Clint and a random assortment of other agents. Most of them have _some_ idea of what's going on. Clint does not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, fair warning, I stole Faraschino from a co-owner of the SHIELD HR Department memos because they're hilarious, and wanted some OC red shirts. their blog is http://www.shieldhumanresourcesdept.tumblr.com if I've got that copied right. (Fucking school whitelisting.)
> 
> Also, this is fairly short, and I feel bad. I can't promise longer updates, though, because I suck. Sorry.

It's a month later when everyone in New York falls asleep in the middle of the day. Clint had been getting yelled at all day for accidentally slathered his NERF darts with Epoxy instead of Elmer's glue, and casually shooting them at that one ops dickbag who made fun of the mess hall staff. ("Accident" his ass, you treat the mess staff like shit because they make you eat carrots? Your head is Agent Barton's. It's common fucking sense, not to piss off the wait staff.)

So Agent Farashino had built up this really impressive head of steam, and was about to pass Clint over to Agent Thrikk to organize the annals of the archives for three and a half weeks, solid, when Faraschino crumples on the ground in an undignified heap. Thumps can be heard reverberating through the ventilation system, and Thrikk looks like she wants to either join them or gouge out someone's intestines with a spork. She swears, mentioning someone's singular hairy eyeball, and sifts for Faraschino's weapon. Clint raises an eyebrow, which is as much as he will outwardly panic, and demands to know what the fuck is going on. No, seriously, he asks, why is Faraschino asleep? Why aren't we?

A voice on the loudspeaker sounds-- one of the squints-- and asks for all personnel to please clear the ranges, turn off or put on hold anything flammable, and to please meet up in the mess halls.

Clint and Thrikk are picking their way through the bodies on the floor, and Clint's just hoping nobody's reopened stitches-- thats a pretty serious problem around here, because everyone's got something to prove and have no time for sick leave. Soon, Thrikk pushes open the doors to the eighth-level mess hall, and Clint is met with a pool and steady trickle of agents eating food and dragging sleeping agents outside into the hallway. It's very disorienting, seeing so few agents around but so many up. Its also odd to see so many people with the similar features taking up the same types of responsibilities-- the blonde ones who always looked perpetually angry or thoughtful looking ones are wrangling and holding check-ins-- Thrikk is also in that number, having been flagged down as soon as she and Clint walked in. The burly weapons and martial arts trainers are dragging people out of the mess hall and doing weapons checks for some of the Medical techs and assorted scientists not acting as information hubs.

Actually, some of the Medical techs looked a little like Clint, or what he would have looked like if he had never picked up a bow. Their facial structures were similar, an almost sleepy vigilance in their eyes. Clint's just got muscle and height that they don't. It'd be kind of creepy if he didn't like them. So he asks one of them what's going on.

The technician in question, Morgan, shrugs her shoulders and tells him to talk to Susan. Thrikk, you know her, you walked in with her.

She looks like she's got this well in hand, Clint grumbles. What with her and her massive amounts of twins or whatever.

She laughs, yeah, the family's complicated as _shit_ with all of us. Clint's not sure how to handle that implication-- that everyone in the room is related. His, his-- ugh. His _parents_ didn't have any siblings, not that he knew of. 'Course, he'd never really want to see them, but.

One of Thrikk's numerous sisters or cousins calls for the-- the Ares group-- to suit up? Who is the Ares group? What are they suiting up for? Clint turns to ask Morgan, but she's gone. By the time Clint finds her-- at the other side of the room with Clint's other not-siblings-- Thrikk is calling for "undecideds". There are a few hesitant motions, and he sees Mary from accounting stepping forward. One or two engineers step forward as well, so Clint's, at the very least, not going to be alone in being lost.

Thrikk is unsurprised that Clint has no idea what's going on, but it seems she's the only one. One of the Thrikk look-alikes explains, almost haltingly, that one of the most likely scenarios is that one of their parents either cheated on the other or simply had a fun night in bed before marriage with a Greek god. And that everyone but them is asleep because of fuck-all screwy magic, because-- what a surprise-- history is repeating itself with the idiots that can't fucking learn.

Clint is quietly fuming, because he's remembering more about his childhood in this dumbass half hour than he has _since childhood_. The storyteller glowers at Clint's fidgeting and just asks Clint to believe him for about a week.

There's no problems believing him, Clint explains. He just doesn't want to remember his past much. This is. This is making him antsy. The storyteller-- Gordon, that was his name-- Gordon says something about monsters and bronze and Clint just excuses himself. Mary asks where he's going and Gordon makes noises about proper armaments and Clint just yells something back about Euterpe. (In hindsight, naming his bow after one of the Muses was probably not the dumbest thing he's done, considering present company.)

Euterpe is wait in on his cot, in bow form. The string hasn't perished, he notes proudly, and the arrows haven't rusted at all: Euterpe is still as beautiful as the day Clint woke up clutching her grip. Still, he unstrings and restrings her, before scrambling back to the mess hall on level eight.

Thrikk takes one look and says yeah, wait, where have you been hiding that? Youve never had records of using any other bows before--

Clint mumbles something about his magic violin and circus folk, uncomfortable with so much attention on Euterpe. The wave of acceptance is palpable, and relieving, and it almost seems like everything is okay for half a second. Clint's still twenty-three, still believes in magic, and has apparently gotten that belief validated by the existance of maybe a quarter of his co-workers. Good  _God._ Fucking  _Tuesdays._

And then forty or so kids show up at the Empire State Building in gleaming battle armor. Fucking _Tuesdays_ , the ops agents groan, assembling pistols and strapping on the last pieces of body armor. I fucking  _swear, Tues_ days.  _All_ the shit happens on Tuesdays.

\---


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is probably not finihed. Also, I dicked around with pretty much everything possible except for the bare plot points of PJO" Last Olympian, but. Well. I assume we already noticed that one.

They’ve decided to listen in to the gathering at the Empire State Building. Someone recognizes a kid or two in the crowd.

And then a black haired kid starts up a rallying cry, before dragging the group of forty-ish kids in plate armour into the Empire State building. It's-- Clint's not sure what to think. There was a lot of "For Olympus" talk, and Click hasn't had time to bone up on his mythology references, but he's pretty sure that's in Greece.

One of the Ares group- Mark Sanchez, does hand-to-hand lessons- takes pity on Clint, and does a 20-second-debrief on Western Civilization and expansion.

Wherever white people went, he says sagely, the gods followed and mirrored. They live in America and live reality-TV lives.

I thought they'd be a little more-- Clint starts. When Sanchez nods again and replies, right, Clint just nods and turn back to the Empire State Building. Yeah, he finishes lamely, and the small smattering of agents follow after some pull out SHIELD ID's and pull off necklaces with clay beads.

The lobby is surprisingly loud, as the black haired kid argues with the doorman.

Forty demigods in full armour, he says. Gotta stink up the place. Be a shame to have monsters in your lobby.

Then get out of my building, the doorman says. _Fuck,_ Clint knows that guy-- Frank owns the apartment underneath his. They complained about the insulation on their side of the building to the manager together. Clint knew he had a job with weird hours, because they'd both bitch about becoming nocturnal, but _this_ takes the fucking cake. Olympus is closed, Frank continues, oblivious to the group of spec-ops guys behind the group of kids.

Some of the kids do notice, though. One of the girls in back, a little plump, leaning on a pitchfork, eyes at Clint warily until she looks at Amy Gul, level four HR representative and best at diplomacy out of the bash-and-whackers in this contact group, and smiles sunnily at her. Another girl with an aquiline nose and the same sleepy vigilance Clint sees in the mirror pulls back her black hair and eyes the group suspiciously until she lays eyes on Clint's bow. He feels overexposed.

Sanchez bullies his way to the front. Clint trails after the group following Sanchez, unhappy and unsure of his place. He's a dude with a bow, not some god spawn. Some-- some of these kids could be his _brothers_ or _sisters_ , and that thought makes him suck in a breath and close his eyes. He's terrified of these kids, because of his potential to be Harold or Barney. He can't-- he can't _do_ that to anyone.

Now is not the time. Now is really not the time, so he opens his eyes and grins weakly. Hey, Frank, he says. What the hell is this about Olympus?

Frank glares at the intruder and then his eyes widen. He says Clint, buddy, what the fuck, man, and claps him on the shoulder. A tac suit? A _bow_? I thought you were a _mortal_ , man, what the _hell_.

Clint is thrown for a loop. He turns to Sanchez, who's talking to a smaller Thrikk, same honey-blonde hair and scowl, and yells, do we not die? It that a thing?

Amy Gul, on his other side and talking to some kids with wicked farmer's tans, yells back, that's not a thing!

Clint turns back to Frank and says, no, yeah, I'm mortal.

Frank purses his lips. You're being obtuse on purpose.

The kid gets it. He sticks out his hand, introduces himself as Percy, and asks if he found out any of this beforehand.

Clint replies, kid, I never wanted to think about my childhood before this. Why the everloving _fuck_ would I know about this shit beforehand?

\---

They do, eventually, make it up to Olympus, and yes, it is astonishing. Clint really does not want to leave, because this is so _high up_ and he's _stationary_. It's all rather exciting.

Percy panics as he looks pull over the railing. My _city_ , he had croaked.

Clint's been feeling the same kind of possessiveness. This is the first place he had laid down roots; he knows the Chinese place three blocks from his building. He has friends here. He has Lucky and Coulson and Sitwell and Mary and Susan and Frank. There's a new support network, tendrils hooked under his skin, and now--

There's another family out there that's his.

Sanchez corners him and asks if he's coping. Clint nods, not trusting himself to speak, and Sanchez directs him to the Apollo cabin group, whatever the fuck that is. He trots over to a group of similar looking kids-- all sleepy vigilance and sharp features, like someone grounded their bones against a whetstone-- but with varying hair colours and accents. One kid is also from the Midwest, and-- holy fuck-- _recognized him from his shows._

I learned to shoot because of you, the kid says. We... we looked similar, and you looks like you had fun in the crow's nest--

Aerial perches, he corrects absently. You can take the man out of the circus, he says, by way of apology, but. You know the rest.

They're too old for him to play with or whatever. Hell, some of them are almost his age. But he'll be damned if he lets them get hurt like he was.

\---

The calm before the storm is about over, Clint reckons. They've set up in some hotel, citing good luck or some bullshit, but basically most of SHIELD shipped out to deal with an honest-to-god Titan. They're taking Quinjets, but it's a crapshoot and they know it. This Typhon guy controls storms or some shit, which doesn't make for the best flying conditions.

He hopes that this turns out okay. It probably won't, judging from Thrikk's expression when she gets wind of the op. But he hopes.

\--- ---

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to celebrate graduating from high school with a bang! So I'm updating the IMAA fic and this one. Part four in Shawn Spencer & Tony Stark might be up this week, too.

**Author's Note:**

> The Battle of Manhattan will continue to happen next, with Clint continuing to wonder what the fuck is going on in his life, this is beyond normal for even _him_ , which really says loads about his life and the situation at hand.
> 
> (I need to re-read The Last Olympian, but otherwise i think it's going pretty well so far.)


End file.
